


The Principle of Contagion

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, UKUS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England/America (UKxUS); America has magic, and he can only repress it for so long before it just… happens. And then it goes away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Principle of Contagion

**Title: The Principle of Contagion**   
**Author: jedishampoo**

 **Pairing:** England/America  
 ****  
 **Author’s Notes:** This was originally written for the Hetalia kink meme on LJ, for the prompt of America having magic, and repressing it until he starts releasing it forcefully and painfully. [Here’s the Kink Meme link](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=80694754#t80694754). Thanks to the OP for such an awesome prompt! Thanks to my awesome beta [**whymzycal**](http://whymzycal.livejournal.com/) for helping me de-cliché and shake this one out a bit!

  


  
 **The Principle of Contagion**

  
It started about fifteen minutes after the meeting reconvened post-lunch, but it wasn’t the ziti alla forno – courtesy of the Italies, who’d begged to make the food even though the meeting was in London – coming back to haunt him. It was something else, something hot and throbby and bright. It started in America’s toes and rose up his legs, and he tried to ignore it as it hovered somewhere around his lower belly. He had no idea why he’d thought it was bright, because he couldn’t see it, only feel it. But it was totally a growing bubble of something bright and those other things, inside him and trying to get out.

“Mmep,” America said, inevitable as a sneeze. Several folks nearby gave him weird looks, so he thumped his fist against his breastbone to make it look like it really was just the ziti. They rolled their eyes _assholes help me assholes_ and he went back to wondering what the hell was wrong with him, and why his fingers and toes were going numb, and why he could see it all of a sudden– there was a sort of very un-Jimi-ish purple, throbby, goopy haze sinking down from the ceiling of the very ritzy Claridge’s.

America managed not to scream as the haze oozed down onto Italy of the North, who merely looked up and then slapped his own cheeks a couple of times. Germany was talking and talking and talking about European trade, or something, while the purple sank down and blanketed Poland. Poland stopped doodling on his meeting binder and shot a narrow-eyed glare at everyone around him, everyone except America, though it was totally obvious what was going on. It had to be.

When it dripped onto Russia, he never even glanced up from what he was doing, just waved his hand in front of his face like he was lazily brushing away a bug. And Germany talked some more and everybody else watched or wrote or did their thing and acted like they weren’t being consumed by a blob from outer space.

So maybe America’d watched that Stephen King collection on his laptop during the flight over and maybe he was having nightmares. But he didn’t think so; he would have sworn he was totally awake. As he watched in unmoving horror, the purple draped itself over the long conference table. The wooden surface began to buckle and squeal like its wood molecules were being pissed off, and _holy crap somebody help him_ it was coming out of him and spouting up at the ceiling and raining down like a fountainous ooze monster and Romania and Haiti saw it coming for them and fell forward, face-down, into the table--

England! England would help – it wasn’t America’s fault about the pasta, after all. America _mmep_ ed again and craned his head through its fountain of haze to look down the table at England, who was staring at him with eyes gone twice their normal size. England stood and leaned his palms flat on the table.

“America. What the hell are you playing at?”

America cupped his hands and waved his arms into the purple like he was bailing out a boat except backwards, trying to grab it all and drag it back inside him. He could feel it between his fingers: thick, hot, and pulsing, and it felt … sexy, somehow. Smooth and slick. And that thought was almost more terrifying than the oozing and eating everyone part.

“Is he on drugs again?” someone said.

“He isn’t going into another recession, is he?” Hungary said, glaring.

“Ha ha,” America said and laughed again because he hadn’t said _mmep_. “Ha - I don’t think so. I don’t know. Hey, I’ll be right back–”

He stood and his chest opened up and exploded in goo, right through his Hugo Boss suit, and the goo was turning all chunky and reddish-purple and goddamn, he was totally going all _Carrie_ on the world meeting. And maybe part of him had wanted to do it; suddenly he felt more powerful than he could ever remember feeling, like he could thrust his fists into the air and say “Pathetic fools! Prepare to meet your doom” in a deep, ominous voice.

“Stop it! Stop him–” someone – England – was yelling, and America didn’t want England to meet his doom because he was, like, his … yeah. England was stomping toward him, still yelling at him to stop, and he looked really good in his brown suit – also courtesy of an Italy.

But England couldn’t get too close because of the bloody-purple ooze-blob. It hit his knees in a wave. He fell, and there was this horrible, horrible-looking thing lurching behind him, a skeletal woman-thing with slimy hair and giant holes where her eyes should be, and long, sharp claws. They were dripping with England’s blood.

“No! Aaaaah!” America screamed, as involuntarily as he’d _mmep_ ed.

Everyone jumped up and started shouting and looking around and seeing nothing and understanding nothing, and America couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see it.

“Cosh him! Someone knock him unconscious,” England’s voice said.

“With pleasure,” someone else said. Then Iran was there in front of America, white robes untouched by the goo. Iran pulled back a fist, and–

  
***

  
They’d been in the limousine for ten minutes before America woke up. England sighed, an exhalation of smoke that was sucked out through the crack in the window. He tapped the ash from his cigarette into a cup and watched America blink a few times. America’s forehead wrinkled. No doubt, England thought, America was wondering why he was lying on the seat of an automobile, and why his wrists and ankles were bound behind him in that way.

“Nnnngh,” America said. Then he coughed and lifted his head a few centimeters from the plush seat. He looked at England. “I thought you quit?”

“I had,” England said. He took a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette.

“Huh. Can I have a lock of your hair?”

“No, you may not,” England said, though he felt his face warm.

“Oh,” America said. His head flopped back onto the seat. “Ha ha! I’m dreaming.”

“No!” England yelped, then clamped his lips shut. At least America had stopped spurting violet over everyone, but let him think for one moment that he was dreaming, and he was likely to do anything. “You are not. Should you not ask me why you are tied up?”

“Yeah, I wondered about that. I might – ha ha – know. Ow.” America blinked again. “Where are my glas–”

“I have them here,” England said, patting the coat-pocket where he’d stuffed America’s spectacles. Then he scrunched his cigarette out in the cup and wedged the cup between the seats. He uncrossed his legs, making his motions slow and precise so as not to alarm America in any way. He rose.

“My head hurts. Iran’s gonna get it,” America said, watching England step over and sit next to him.

“Why? It was Canada who thumped you. At least, I think it was Canada. And thank heavens he did so. Here – let me see,” England said and reached out slowly to brush gentle fingers through the hair covering the knot on America’s head where he’d been bludgeoned.

“Are you worried about me?” America’s grin sparkled -- literally. A shimmer of light grew to surround him. No, it filled him and spilled over. The whites of his eyes gleamed.

“No, I’m worried about the safety of the rest of the world,” England said and looked out the window. “What set you off this time, idiot?”

“Set me off? What are you talking about? I was just minding my own business, reading over my notes, listening very attentively to Germany, when stuff started happening and I couldn’t stop it, even though I tried, and– oh, is everyone else okay?”

“Yes. And it’s magic. You’re full of it, among other things, and it’s getting out. You always forget, though I don’t know how you could possibly–”

“Holy shit! What is that thing? Get away!” America shrieked. The interior lights fizzled and popped and England’s hair stood on end as the air was saturated with electric-like power.

“What? What?” England’s gaze flew about the darkened car, trying to see whatever it was that America was seeing. He sighed when he realized what it was. She did have a rather striking appearance to the uninitiated, but America usually could not see her at all so it was not usually a concern. “That’s Maeve. She’s a banshee. Stop that, Maeve, there’s a luv,” England said, when he saw Maeve teasing America by waving her dripping claws.

“Oh, God, I want to be dreaming. I’m gonna explode. I’m all … Ha ha! I dunno. I have to make up words to describe it. Fulmous. Nngh,” America moaned into the seat, long and low.

“Fulmous.” England froze, because the temperature of America’s skin had just doubled. Tripled. In a matter of half-seconds. He realized his own fingers were still fondling America’s fair hair with some zeal. He halted their roving ways and pretended to dig in his pockets.

“Yeah. Gravital. Lumenive. Why’d you stop touching me? Let’s have sex.”

“Not now. You’re being ridiculous. You need to learn control,” England said in a stern voice. Still, his toes curled a little in his shoes.

“Oh, I have control. I have oodles of fucking control, dude. I’m the United States of America. Let me just get out of these–” He started wriggling about on the seat, trying to loosen his bonds. When he realized that he was getting nowhere despite his strength, he started to grunt and kick. He craned his head and shot England a brow-furrowed glare.

England took that opportunity to vacate the spot next to America and slumped back on the seat across from him, where the fags were. He cracked the window and lit one. He took a deep, burning drag, then exhaled, feeling the calming yet enervating burst of nicotine as it hit his system. He mentally apologized to both his people and to America before speaking again.

“Cuba tied those ropes, and Haiti helped him, once he woke up. They know what they are doing where sympathetic magic is concerned – that’s likely why you wanted a lock of my hair. Regardless, you can cease your thrashing about and perhaps even listen to me.”

America sagged back to the seat, his whole being as limp as a rag doll. A rag doll that had been tied up like a heifer.

“Well, I do have New Orleans in me, after all,” America said in a low voice. “Though I thought – think – that stuff is all bullshit.”

England felt his face heat again, this time because he was angry. He waved the two fingers holding a cigarette at America. “You always think that! How you can possibly be composed of so many cultures, with so many mystical histories – including mine – and still think that magic is make-believe … I simply do not know how you do it.”

Where there had been heat, England now felt a blast of cold air. America’s hair and eyebrows grew a sprinkling of frost as England watched. His skin took on a dreadful tinge of greyish-white . He shivered on the seat and breathed out a visible fog.

“You’re imagining things, England. There’s gotta be some other explanation. Please let there be.”

England wanted to touch America again, to warm him and brush the frost from his hair and to bring back his usual brand of smug tomfoolery, but America had to know where they stood. And cooperate, or they’d never get him back to normal.

England stubbed out his cigarette. “America– do you remember Camp David in 1976, when Russia made some snide comment and you materialized Koschei the Deathless and Baba Yaga, causing a near-irreparable international incident?”

“What are you talking about?” America said. England stared his sincerity into America’s ice-rimmed blue eyes. America sighed. “No, I don’t remember.”

“Shall I tell you more about it? In greater detail? To remind you of what you purposefully forget?”

America shivered again and closed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve entered an evil, crazy mirror universe, where things don’t make any sense. Like it’s Halloween all the time. It’s cold here.”

“Oh, America. You twat,” England said. America looked so pathetic; England preferred the glow he’d had earlier, no matter how unsettling it had been. “I’m helping you, you know. That’s why you are here, en route to my home. We’re almost there, in fact.” The car slowed and England glanced out the window; they were at his drive.

“You’ll help me? With whatev– with this?”

”Yes, of course. Don’t I always?”

“You’re the best!” The car began to fill with multicolored, iridescent butterflies.

Thankfully they had pulled up to the house; England opened the door before the driver could get to it, trying to get out before America started shitting rainbows. England untied America’s feet after extracting a promise to do exactly what he said, which was to follow him straight to his basement.

Everyone was excited to welcome him home, of course, and to see America. The problem was that now America could see everyone back as they followed England and America through the house.

“So many things I don’t wanna see,” America said, and he finally stopped making the fucking butterflies.

  
***

  
America waited. It was only about ten minutes before England was back, in his “clothes for the job,” as he called them. He’d run up to change after he’d installed America in the basement _don’t go anywhere, don’t touch a fucking thing, don’t even move, not a muscle_ , and his working clothes consisted of an old black tee-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and bare feet. He looked comfortable, which was more than America could say; he was still wearing his button-down shirt and suit pants, his hands were still tied behind him, and he was sitting on the cold basement floor. And the weird, burning, bubble thing was still inside him. But now, at least, he felt that if he breathed deeply enough and concentrated hard enough on something – England and what he was doing, maybe – he could keep it from going all explodey again.

He shuddered all over at the memory and watched England work. England was crawling around America on his hands and knees, scritching a piece of white chalk along some faded white lines that covered the floor. Some of the old lines he refreshed, and some he rubbed into the concrete with the side of his fist. America shivered again and took a long, shaky breath.

“Uh. Where’s my jacket? It was super-expensive.”

“Likely someone has it and you can retrieve it later,” England said without looking up. He was concentrating, his tongue sticking out of his mouth.

“Ha, I hope so. Um.” America took another deep breath. He was feeling better every second; whatever England was doing seemed to be helping. Or maybe it was just England, who was actually helping by simply being there and being mostly unfazed by all the weird shit. “What does everyone think happened?”

“Hmm. As far as about ninety-eight percent of them are concerned, a heat wave in the central United States. The other two percent have their mobile phones at the ready, so do not even think of causing me trouble.”

“Not me! I’m a helper. I help people. Heroic-like.” America knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t help it. He’d made the mistake of looking up. Things were floating around up there, things he’d always been able to convince himself were imaginary, things caught from the corner of one’s eyes on a dark night and tricks of the light. But at the moment the tricks of the light looked all too solid. They saw him seeing them and started zipping around, glowing and laughing, sometimes making looping arcs through the air to whizz around England’s blond head. England’s hair was sticking up and his huge eyebrows were pointing down, making his forehead look like a face of its own.

“I’m so freaked out right now,” America said.

“How is that different from any other time?” England mumbled. He pushed from his knees to a stand and ambled over to grab a book off a dusty, cobweb-covered shelf. It was one of his huge, old books, the ones that were all crusty and grumpy-looking. Something that deserved the name “grimoire.”

“Usually I think you’re a dork for believing in this stuff. But right now I’m glad you have those creepy old books and a basement pentagram.”

“What did you say?”

America looked at the floor to avoid having to look at everything else. A bubble of panic low in his stomach threatened to burst out like a belch, promising to blacken it all; he swallowed the panic down. He felt his forehead and the back of his neck break out in a sweat. “Do you really think – what do you really think is happening to me?”

“That you’re an ass. That you’re an ass with a wellspring of raw power within you.” America glanced up to see England looking at him, his green stare level and thoughtful. “Truthfully, my best guess is that you always have this magic but suppress it through unbelief. Things disappear when most people don’t believe in them. But that doesn’t stop them from existing, and existing under their own terms. Wild.”

“Oh.”

England kneeled again and made a tiny, corrective-looking scritch in the chalk floor-circle. He said something that sounded like _bumpkiss_ and a few dozen candles tucked into sconces on the walls burst into tiny flames, while the lightbulbs popped off. The candlelight surrounded them with warm, flickering-yellow light.

“Oh, God,” America breathed. He breathed again. More importantly than anything, the dark and bright bubble within him had suddenly eased off, slunk away, become less of a threat.

England grinned at him, his teeth white in the surrounding yellow. “This is why we use spells and ritual: to impose order on that which is dangerously wild.” He crawled over and behind America, and America felt fingers yanking at the ropes that bound his hands.

America breathed once more and relaxed his fingers, to let England take off the stupid ropes. “How long do I have to stay here?”

“Hmm. Just until we’re sure we can keep you under control. Historically it’s usually a matter of a day or so. Less.”

America rolled his eyes. “Historically. You’re full of it. I would totally remember, you know.”

“Oh! You–” America felt England’s fingers halt in their work. He could almost feel England’s angry blush as it crawled over his face, could see it in his mind’s eye. “You’re such a berk. I’m trying to help you.”

“Gotcha. Sorry,” America said. That didn’t mean England wasn’t fun to tease. He waggled his fingers behind him in reminder, and thankfully, England completed the job of untying him. He held up the rope, which was America’s expensive silk tie. But there were more important things to worry about. “England … I gotta stay in here? This floor is kinda hard.”

“Taken care of.” England smirked and looked up. America’s gaze followed, and to his horror, he could see a crowd of little floating girls. They were dragging a floppy kind of pillow-mattress down the basement steps. They didn’t smudge it over the circle but lifted it with visible, flitting-winged effort, and let it thump down inside the circle. Then they zipped off, giggling.

“I gotta sleep here? On that?”

“It’s a perfectly comfortable futon. I acquired it for Japan when he visited.”

America shook his head to get that thought straight in his brain. “Japan sleeps over?”

England’s cheeks were pink even in this low light, yeah, and they got pinker. He turned his head sideways and looked at the walls or something. “Platonically, if you must know.”

“Uh huh.” America was teasing. Sort of. Kind of.

“You ass.” England looked back at him and then, to America’s surprise, leaned forward until his flushed face was only a couple of inches away. “Are you hungry?”

America swallowed. “No.” And strangely, he wasn’t.

“Hmm,” England said, the sentiment a warm puff on America’s face. Then he leaned closer and kissed him. His lips were soft and his breath just a little smoky. America opened his mouth, sighing into the sudden pleasure of the act. He felt England’s fingers slide up to brush in his hair and pull his face closer, a little authoritative but somehow avoiding the still-sore knot on the back of his head. England’s tongue thrummed with the little _hmmm_ s rising up through his throat, or maybe those were America’s.

Without breaking their lip-lock England shifted to kneel-straddle America’s outstretched legs. America’s hands found their way to England’s sides. His tee-shirt was soft and cool under America’s hot and still-heating fingers.

Low in his belly the bubble of something sparked like the candles had, warming him even more from the inside out until he could feel the tingle of sweat filming on his face, his neck, his chest. This part was always weird, but exciting exactly because it was weird, because it was England, who blew hot and cold at him and then did mind-blowing shit like this. England was too important to him sometimes; America wanted to swallow him, to ooze all over him.

As if he read America’s thoughts, England softened his fingers in America’s hair and pulled away. He stared at him with half-closed eyes. He licked his lips.

America shivered a little. “Are you gonna cure me with sex?”

England snorted. “No, the sex is just a bonus.”

“Oh. That’s cool.”

The corners of England’s thin and sexy lips curved up a little. “Though it should help. Controlled release of energy and all that.”

“Sounds awesome,” America told him. His gut was already pulsing, throbbing, and when England kissed him again he moaned and tried to arch his belly into England’s, to push against all of him.

“Good lord,” England mumbled into America’s mouth, a smoky exhalation of lust. America clung to him until England yanked at his hair.

“Ow.”

“Over here,” England said. He crab-crawled backwards a few feet to the mattress and patted it. America followed.

“Yeah,” America admitted. He joined England on the mattress and kneeled there thigh-to-thigh with him. Their size difference was more apparent when they were close like this but England wasn’t a lightweight; he wrapped his arms around America and pulled his face down to kiss him again, and then all was England’s soft lips and his rough hands, urgent under America’s shirt and on his skin.

The bright expanded to surround them and keep them close and England sucked on his earlobe, puffing through his nose to shiver onto America’s eardrums. America was goo, he was melting hot onto England and his soft lips and moaning breath, unmelting only long enough to let England pull his arms out the sleeves of his button-down shirt. England stripped off his own tee-shirt and made up for the delay by licking along the sensitive skin of America’s jawline and grabbing America’s erection, which tried to break through his Boss pants.

“Unh… just like that,” America moaned.

“Does the magic make it worse?” England asked his throat. His hand squeezed, and every muscle in America’s body tensed with it.

“Better,” America said, shoving his hips forward against England’s hand.

“Hmm,” England said, swaying back to look at him. England himself was something to see, all flushed and shiny and soft around the edges. “I don’t have that – what you have, you know.”

“But you believe in this stuff–”

“Nevertheless. Not like this,” England interrupted. He flattened his palms on America’s chest and pushed until America flopped onto his back. There America waited and watched England loom over him.

England lowered his head until all America could see was the brushy top of his hair. Slowly he licked the long line of dripping sweat from America’s breastbone. America’s hips jerked so hard he bonked England in the chin with his groin.

“Watch that.”

“Hoookay.” America was riveted, would do anything England asked as England started to lick his chest again, his tongue tracing spit-circles in the sweat that coated nearly every inch of him. He dragged his lips over America’s ribs and then up, up his chin to give him a long, salty kiss. In return America traced England’s sides with his fingers, gentle and then desperate when England grabbed his cock, pulling it out through the opened fly of his pants _when had those opened?_

England gave it a lazy, torturous stroke. “Blimey,” it sounded like he whispered.

America choked on his own spit. “Did you just say ‘blimey'?”

“Shut it,” England said, his face growing bright red, visible even in the candlelight. He slipped his thumbs along the dips of America’s abdomen, then grabbed and pulled down the waistband of his pants.

“You want it?” America said. He couldn’t help but grin.

“Do you? You were the one feeling all _fulmous_.”

America felt incredibly fulmous, hot and effervescent and achey like his skin was willing to do just about anything to get England to touch him. “Yes, please,” he sighed. “Fuck me.”

England seemed to twitch all over for a second or two. “Very well,” he said, and pulled. Once America’s pants were off he kneeled between his legs and laid his open mouth on America’s stomach, breathing a hot and wet circle onto it. “You will never last, though,” he whispered to America’s belly.

“Is that any reason not to do it?” America squeaked, and hated that he’d squeaked.

“Hmm,” England said again. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows and one side of his lips quirked up, giving him that snarky, sly look he got whenever he thought he’d had one over on somebody. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey!” America said, but England had already hopped out of the circle and was thumping up the stairs.

America couldn’t not move, though. He was all nude and stretchy and hot, and he didn’t even care that the little flying chicks were hanging out on the bookshelves, watching him fidget on the mattress. He had a feeling they’d always been around and he’d just never seen them. And then he had a feeling that he was getting a little too used to having such visions, such strumming sensations throughout his body, to being lit up, like Rockefeller Center at Christmas.

England thumped back down the stairs and noticed the little voyeurs as well. “Shoo,” he said, waving his hands until they scampered away.

America could admit to being happier for having England to himself. He squirmed under England’s smirking, hot gaze.

“I can’t believe you didn’t have a wank while I was away,” England said. He executed a little jump back into the circle.

“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve,” America murmured, happy and horny.

“No need now.” England kneeled and popped open a bottle of lube – what he must have gone to fetch. America was so lumenive he wasn’t sure he’d need it. England was gonna fuck him; England would never hear from America how kind he could be, how important he was.

“I’d rather take my time,” England continued in a murmur. He kissed America again, hard, and America just wanted to lie there and let anything happen. Then England shoved a lube-slicked finger up his ass and jammed it right where he was the most gravital.

“Oh, God,” America huffed, and he clutched England’s shoulders. England didn’t really seem to be taking his time and America was going to point that out until England kissed his chin with a wet smacking noise. He moved down and did the same to America’s chest, his belly, and then right over the end of his cock.

“Oh, God,” America said again, and then lest England get any ideas, a plain old “Oh, England.”

“Mmph,” England said, all sucking softness on America’s cock, his finger up America’s ass stroking inside him with hard intent. For all England loved to fuck, he very rarely gave blowjobs. It was too bad because he was pretty darned good at it, his lips tight, every sucking breath pulling America’s hips up with it.

And England was right – America would never last. All he could choke out were harsh moans, which England encouraged with satisfied hums that America felt everywhere.

America curled his fingernails into England’s shoulders, and England whispered encouraging things at him, then licked and sucked until the bright thing sank hard into America’s belly. He grew heavier and heavier, sinking, until he was yanked into a climax of _ah ah ah_ s and quivering hips.

England coughed a little in his throat but was all kindness and care when he slid his lips off America’s cock, all _there you go, love, there_ , and he’d said _luv_ and he wouldn’t stop staring at America, who was just breathing hard, recovering from a really freaking amazing orgasm.

Still England stared and America felt something well up in him, but not the purple-Carrie-oozy thing: something else that stole his body’s air and squeezed just short of physical pain at his lungs and heart and told him that things could have been bad, things had gotten dark but instead England was here again. When pieces needed to be picked up, they always did that for each other, like it was the only thing to do.

America couldn’t bear that sense of inevitability, not on top of everything else. He wanted to stop it, say something meaningless, make things normal again.

“So,” he said. England yelped when America grabbed his erection through his jeans and traced it with his fingers. “Historically, is sexing me always the bonus cure?”

England didn’t scowl as America had expected, but closed his eyes. The edges of his lips softened. “No. This is a new, more experimental method.”

“Well, if I don’t remember later – thanks,” America said.

England smiled for real then, a bright thing, an alive thing in the candlelight, and America couldn’t breathe to say _No, I meant thanks for making me your guinea pig, dude_ , or something. Since he couldn’t breathe, he smiled back.

England did scowl then. “I thought we were done with the fucking butterflies?”

  
***

  
It was only a minute or so later that they’d cleared the butterflies away. That America had managed to create them even here spoke to what he held inside him. Coupled with his stupid strength, it was frightening. Add the way America was stroking his cock through his jeans-zip, England thought it was frightening in an incredibly exciting way.

America probably had no idea what he’d given him. _Thank you_ ; how many times had England _not_ heard that? Having America rely on him, to need him so – it was almost better than the sex. Almost. The sex had become a near necessity by that point. England cleared his throat.

“Now those thingums are gone. Perhaps I should remove these – these things, then? And you should – over,” he said with an incomprehensible arm-wave. He hated that he was babbling, but it was difficult to speak with America using his long fingers to such advantage and grinning at him so.

“Well, professor, it’s your call. Whatever you want,” America said. He correctly interpreted the arm-waving to mean _on your knees_ and shifted till he was on his stomach, then arse-up.

That he was being so accommodating was another shock. They had indeed entered an alternate universe where nothing made sense. England flopped to his back and removed his jeans in record time.

He’d slicked America up fairly well a few minutes ago but spread some lubricant on himself; the lube was a welcome coolness on his skin and the action gave him time to watch America on his knees, the slight rise and fall of his back as he caught his balance. He looked so familiar from certain angles that it hurt.

There was no doubt England would do all he could to make this as pleasurable as possible for America, his America; he always did, and America knew it. But what America didn’t know was that like this, he was the personification of not just geography and peoples but one of England’s more erotic sexual fantasies, his irresistibly flushed skin thrumming with raw energy, full to bursting with something he couldn't understand or control.

England slid his fingers over America’s hips. He savored his own control and anticipation as long as he could, an agonizing delay of only milliseconds before he let himself guide his cock into the tight slide of America’s body, well worth the wait. He eased in some and then lingered, inside him but not moving, aching desperately but feeling everything America’s body communicated to him; the hiss of America’s breath through his teeth, the tremble in his thighs, the deeper humming under his skin. The collected, inherited power he possessed was only barely contained by the ritual and consecration.

England swirled his hips in a lazy circle, working his way inside. It was a good way to investigate again where it was that made America–

“Ahthere,” America huffed, and England knew he’d found it. By twisting America’s hips just so he could angle that way again, again, and again, answering his body’s demands to move.

“God. Jesus – I mean, England–” America’s knees were shaking. “You are evil, man. I don’t know how you do it–”

That made two of them. England took a few minutes to thrust at that precise pace, drawing out his own pleasure and listening to America whinge about being made to feel good.

A few minutes of that pace was all England could sustain, however, and almost before he knew it he was working his hips faster and faster. He _shhh, shhh_ ed over and over in endearment or perhaps even a warning to America, because words had power and he should have made love to America so that he could see his face, could kiss him quiet.

America started to flop forward but England caught him around the middle with his forearm. He’d stopped talking, at least, and huffed in short, sharp moans along with England, along with the rhythm of their bodies.

England fell forward and pulled America close with that arm. He lost his rhythm for a moment in the slide of sweat between his belly and America’s back, then picked it up again, even faster than before.

America was glowing, even here, or was it just the light catching his hair? Whatever the case, he was aroused again, his unsubtle cock nudging hard against England’s forearm. Aroused for him, for England, he was all his, he was warm and alive and … er, yes, even _fulmous_. A few minutes more at that pace and England felt a stitch in his side, as it seemed his lungs couldn’t remember how to catch air. America cried out when he came again, _oh God oh England ah!–_

The spasm of his climax broke England’s rhythm again and he never recovered it, just thrust in jerks until he came as well, a release so harsh that it left him gasping.

His strength was drained and he let America fall at last, following a scant few moments later. For a while he made a bed of America, from head to toe. His damp hair smelled like the fading remnants of strawberry shampoo. England felt how the something in America had faded, leaving his limbs relaxed and made of mere warm flesh once more. His skin shone, but only with sweat and candlelight.

America emitted a half-snore and then seemed to catch himself. He swallowed.

“Dude. I think you just sexed me into oblivion.”

England snorted and then took a lazy lick at the sweat on America’s nape. “A successful experiment, then?”

America chuckled. After another few moments, he cleared his throat. “But, well, seriously. Can you maybe get off me?” He jammed England’s ribs with his elbow.

England sighed and crawled off so America could roll over. It seemed he’d shagged America’s accommodating nature into oblivion, as well. He lay next to America anyway, looking at him, and pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

“You’re staring at me again,” America said.

Perhaps he was. “How do you feel?”

“Hmm. Normal. Just dead tired. Thirsty. Are you gonna stay down here with me?”

England smiled at being asked. “Yes. I’ll get some blankets. And tea,” he promised. He peeled himself from the sticky futon – he’d have to get a new one for Japan – and creaked to a standing position.

“Get my glasses … I can’t see,” America demanded in a sleepy-sounding voice.

“Nonsense,” England told him as he pulled on his jeans. He would get them anyway, just to be kind, and bring them back with the tea.

When England returned a few minutes later, however, America was dead asleep, still naked, his face pressed into the concrete floor. England carried two cups of tea into the circle anyway, along with the promised blankets. He dug America’s spectacles from his jeans-pocket and laid them on the floor next to his head.

It was only late afternoon but, historically, America would sleep off his exertions for hours. This time he’d also had non-magical exertions to fuel his corpse-like slumber. England had plenty of time to get other things accomplished. He could go upstairs, perhaps, and clean up. Watch some telly. But then, he’d told America he’d stay.

He drank his tea and wondered if, this time, America would remember anything. He had a feeling that America would somehow manage to not remember a thing, no matter how much evidence was presented to him. It was just how he was, and England knew he’d have to live with it, if he and America were to have … what they had.

***

America woke with a killer headache and his face stuck to concrete. He didn’t have to peel his face from the floor to see that England was sleeping next to him, facing away.

He also saw his glasses, lying on the floor next to him. He sat up and put them on and took a look around. First he noticed that in addition to a headache, he had a sore ass. Next he realized that he was in England’s basement, and they’d been sleeping on a mattress on the floor. The smells of sex, tea, and burned wax hovered around them. He tapped the back of England’s head.

“England! What time is it? Why were we screwing in your basement?” he asked. The candles suggested something kinky.

England didn’t move, but he did emit something that sounded a little like a sob. “Sometimes I hate you so much,” he said, so low as to be barely audible.

America huffed. “Geeze! What did I do now?” _Jerk_ , he said under his breath. He took another look around – a short look. He didn’t like England’s basement much and didn’t want to examine it too closely, in case he saw something he didn’t want to see. He’d heard once that England had a banshee around somewhere. America shivered, and not just ‘cause he was naked. Seeing a banshee always meant that someone was _dead_.

  
 **END**

 _Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit, flames loved so much you just don’t even know._

  
I stole the title from Wikipedia’s article on magic: “Another primary type of magical thinking includes the principle of contagion. This principle suggests that once two objects come into contact with each other, they will continue to affect each other even after the contact between them has been broken.”

  



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